


Spring for Gold

by Liatheus



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Accidental Courtship, Fandral is doing his best, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Roses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 12:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15509763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liatheus/pseuds/Liatheus
Summary: It started with a rose.





	Spring for Gold

It started with a rose.

A yellow rose, so perfectly deep in colour and shade that it shone like burnished gold in the ambient glow of the setting sun and the firelight lanterns that hung from the branches of great ash trees. Its leaves boasted a dark, dramatic green, curving out from a stem holding neat thorns that were as sharp as they were delicate.

Fandral had taken one look the rose standing out proud from its sisters, and immediately thought of exactly one Asgardian prince who donned green for his cape and gold for his trimmings and had a tongue just as sharp and delicate as rose thorns.

It never occurred to him to question what he was doing as he pulled his parrying dagger from his belt and cut the rose from its bush, leaving a long, trailing stem. Nor did he think of what future a mere rose could bring when he found a passing servant girl and bid her to set the rose at His Highness, the Second Prince’s place before the night’s banquet began.

The request of a friend, he told her, lips automatically curling up in a well-practiced smile that was two-parts flirtation and one-part polite persuasion. Not unlike other ladies Fandral the Dashing had turned his attentions upon, she blushed, the dimples in her cheeks deepening as she returned a shy smile of her own. She accepted the rose with a careful hand and quick curtsy, and promised to deliver the gift to His Highness as asked.

Fandral thanked her kindly for her assistance, wondered for a brief second looking at her sweetly pinked cheeks and glimmering brown hair if maybe she’d have a chance to sneak away from her duties after the night’s feast, dismissed the thought in the same breath, and continued on his way, whistling high as a springtime songbird.

***

The High Feast of Einmánuður was as glittering and joyous as it was every year, set out in the expansive and heady grounds of the Royal Gardens. Fandral found his place among the nobles and warriors of honour and rank on the crowded long tables and benches set up, squeezing Volstagg’s shoulder when he passed the elder warrior sitting with his family and other Asgardian veterans. Hogun quirked an eyebrow when Fandral slipped in beside him with a sheepish grin for his almost-tardiness, but there was no time to exchange words for Fandral had arrived just in time for the herald to announce the arrival of the Royal Family.

Try as he might, Fandral wasn’t close enough to see whether a yellow rose waited at the place of His Highness, the Second Prince, not when the Royal Table was all gold, from its polished surface down to the stumps of its legs, surrounded by golden chairs and laid out with golden crockery, all set up against the backdrop of Asgard’s golden palace. It was a breath-stealing scene to watch as the Realm Eternal’s mighty King and graceful Queen and two beautiful, beloved Princes took their seats, all the gleam and glimmer around them shining upon lustre of their dress and armour.

The All-Father rose and all fell silent, waiting for their King to continue the month-long welcome and celebration of the Spring Equinox and the blessing of Iðunn’s crops. Having heard variations of the same speech for the last seven hundred years, Fandral couldn’t stop his attention from wandering to the Princes. Except there was nothing to see there either; both sat still and poised, heads turned towards their King in dutiful attention.

Fandral could admit to himself that he was a little disappointed, but he brushed the feeling aside easily enough. Not every pursuit need end with bounty after all, for so often the joy of the hunt was more pleasing than the prize itself. And even if his spontaneous gift hadn’t quite made it to its intended recipient, it wasn’t as if it had gone to waste; Fandral easily imagined the rose cut and braided into the young maid’s hair, or sat in a thin, glass vase upon a windowsill drenched in sunlight, a passing glance of natural beauty to be admired in the bustling midst of everyday life.

His own little, everyday offering of Spring, as it were.

Right on cue, Odin’s speech ended; the king retook his seat, and in the blink of an eye, servers waltzed out from the trees bearing great platters of meats and breads and new season fruits. Laughter and chatter rose over jostling hands as flagons filled to the brim with mead and garnished with herbs and flowers were passed down from the ends of the tables. Fandral stole a sip from Hogun’s cup with a playful wink before relinquishing it to the famously grim-faced warrior, who responded with a not-so-grim smirk and a deep draught from Fandral’s flagon.

Fandral laughed as they swapped cups, then caught the eye of Sif over Hogun’s shoulder, sitting further up at the next table over with her family and the other nobles of Odin’s inner court. He raised his cup to her, then higher, as the last of the great platters landed on the crowded tables and the whole garden erupted in cheers to welcome the arrival of Spring.

***

When the last of the marrow had been sucked from the bones of whole braised and roasted hares, and the barrels of mead and wine run dry, the Warriors Three and the Lady Sif met under the shy blossoms of the great pear tree in the courtyard, as had been their custom for the last six hundred or so years since they had become renown as Thor’s companions. It was a familiar and comforting scene: Volstagg chasing the last taste of savoury juices from his fingers; Hogun resting with his back against the sturdy trunk of the tree; Sif pulling white flowers out of her hair and untangling the long strands from their intricate braid. Fandral himself was halfway into his construction of a bracelet of twisted grass when Thor and Loki arrived, the elder Prince pulling the younger along with exuberant strides.

“Come, Loki!” Thor urged over his shoulder, voice booming in the night, now quiet with warm stomachs and sleep. “Come show our friends what you have!”

“Really, Thor, I think you’re making this out to be a greater deal than it really is,” Loki said, though he let himself be dragged along by his brother until they stepped into the cover of the pear tree and into the circle of their friends.

“What is it?” Sif asked immediately, jumping to her feet. Flowers lay scattered on the grass before her, like stars floated down to the earth.

Everyone looked to Loki now, Hogun sitting up straighter and Volstagg stilling his hands. Anticipation built up in Fandral’s gut, fluttering with an unexpectedly wild gush when he noticed that Loki was keeping his left hand held behind his back and out of sight.

“Loki,” Thor said again, giving him little push.

“Oh, alright. Here.”

Always one to enjoy keeping his audience in suspense, Loki waited a few more seconds as they all leaned forward and Sif gave an impatient huff, before pulling out his hidden hand with a flourish to present a single, long-stemmed yellow rose. Even having already guessed what they would see, Fandral had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from reacting.

“It was on his seat when we arrived at the Feast,” Thor said excitedly, thumping Loki’s shoulder.

“I fail to see what’s so interesting about a flower,” Sif said.

The corners of Loki’s mouth flattened outwards, and he pulled the rose back, almost protectively.

“Well, it’s not surprising that you would,” he said archly, tilting his chin up at the flowers still left in Sif’s hair, now bruised and wilting from her handling.

Sif narrowed her eyes, and Fandral hurried to interject before the atmosphere could turn sour.

“It’s a lovely flower!” he said, smiling his brightest smile at them both, and then because he couldn’t help himself, “Do you have any idea who sent it to you?”

Loki looked at him suspiciously, but Fandral smiled blithely on, body loose and easy, like he just wanted to keep the peace—which he did—and was genuinely interested in the rose—which he was. (He was the best of them when it came to keeping up with Loki’s mischief aside from Thor himself, and had picked up a trick or two over the many years.)

“I’ve no idea,” Loki said, after another moment of scrutiny in which he had apparently decided that Fandral’s intentions were in good faith, or at least not intended to offend him, “as Thor said, it was on my seat when we arrived at the Feast. I’m not sure who would have put it there, or why.”

“On Vanaheim, yellow roses are a symbol of the sun and happiness,” Hogun said softly, “they are sent and received as offers and acceptance of deep friendship and sweet love.”

“Oh ho, a secret admirer!” Volstagg laughed in delight, striding up and clapping Loki on the back. “Ah, sweet days of youth! I remember my first time approaching my fair Hildegund, and let me tell you, lad, my knees were shaking harder than my very first battle facing down a horde of wildebeest! Ah, but the things we got up to, jaunting through the woods from dusk ‘til dawn!” He slapped Loki’s back again, hearty enough to make him rock slightly onto his toes. “To think that there is someone out there brave enough to solicit the Silvertongue himself! It looks like word of the skill of that tongue has reached even further then we thought!”

“I am sure it is nothing so clandestine,” Loki said demurely, though there was humour in his voice and the tips of his lips twitched upwards. A fleeting smile, nothing so obvious as dimples in a blushing face, yet its very appearance felt like a small victory to Fandral, that same little rush of giddiness and happiness that came when a pretty maiden pressed her lips to his cheek.

Loki was undoubtedly in good humour, allowing Volstagg to touch him twice over before stepping out of reach without a single cutting remark. There was something so very precious about that coming from the second Prince, who so very rarely let anyone from than his family touch him.

“Who knows, brother,” Thor said, stepping up and taking Volstagg’s place, though because it was Thor, he was allowed to hang off Loki’s shoulder like a particularly vibrant red-and-gold cape, “we have gone through many a titillating adventure together over the years. Perhaps Volstagg speaks true and tales of your prowess have indeed reached far!”

Loki rolled his eyes. “If I recall correctly, half of those adventures ended with me having to rescue your bare bottom and make our getaway before anyone could realise that a Prince of Asgard would dare sully of virtue of a nobleman’s precious daughter.”

“Then you’ll have no trouble if you need to make a hasty retreat from your new admirer if they should prove to be too _titillating_ for you, brother,” Thor shot back, leering into Loki’s face.

“Well, I would think that someone who thought to gift such a lovely rose would be of excellent taste and character,” Fandral pushed in, riding on a sudden flash of annoyance that departed as quickly as it came. Words out, however, he wasn’t willing to recall them, so he nodded at Loki’s rose and hoped his friends would simply attribute them to his infamous reputation.

Loki gave him a suspicious look again, but there was something softer about it this time, more considering and less interrogatory. Fandral pretended not to notice, and was thankfully saved from making any further comment by Sif, who gave an exasperated huff and said, “A single flower from an unknown sender and you’ve all turned into airheaded fools.”

Ah, but now that was something the romantic in Fandral couldn’t quite let pass without comment.

“Come, Sif. Even you have to admit that receiving a lovely gift from an unknown sender is quite the heartrobbing thing!”

Sif huffed and shook her head, dislodging more flowers that drifted slowly to her feet. “I will admit nothing. Worse than fools, the lot of you.”

“Should the day come that a man may sweep the Lady Sif off her feet, it shall be a day to remember!” Volstagg sighed.

“I would pity the man who would ever try to sweep the Lady Sif off her feet,” Loki said with a smirk.

“As you should,” Sif said dryly.

“Just as I pity the poor thing who appears to be trying to garner your favour, brother!” Thor laughed again, quickly joined by the rest of the company, though Fandral felt an odd prickle at the back of his throat and something sharp dig at his chest. “You’ll let us know what comes of it, of course?”

“If anything should come of it.” Loki examined the rose thoughtfully, then, to Fandral’s surprise and unexpected delight, fastened it to the buckle of the breast-strap of his great coat, using a whisper of seiðr to bend the stem into a neat bow.

“We shall look forward to it,” Thor said, patting Loki on the shoulder. “Well then, let us return to my chambers.”

Another yearly tradition: heading back to Thor’s private rooms after the High Feast for a final round of drinks before retiring for the night. Everyone murmured their assent and began the walk back to the palace, passing by the gardens once more where the royal servants were hard at work cleaning the remnants of the High Feast. Fandral stepped to the side to allow two men more room to manoeuvre a bench around the corner of a table, picked a knife dropped by one of the passing servant girls clearing dirty plates, cups and cutlery, and caught sight of dimpled cheeks and brown hair through the rush of bodies. A half-formed idea whispered to him, honey-sweet as the mead he’d imbibed during the feast and the victory of Loki’s small smile.

It must have shown somewhere on his face, because Hogun stepped up beside him and said, “I will tell the others that you will not be joining us tonight.”

Fandral half startled, then laughed. “Fear not, my friend,” he joked, “I would not want to derive you and the rest of our merry band of my wonderful personality for too long. Go on ahead, I shall meet you in a bit.”

He waited until the light of the lanterns no longer illuminated the long silhouettes of his friends, then strayed off the path, retracing his steps until he was back at the yellow rose bush. Even at the late hour, its musky floral scent perfumed the night air, almost as intoxicating as the mead in Fandral’s veins (or perhaps he was just intoxicated; that would explain why it felt so natural to pick out another rose as golden as its sister he had whisked away earlier and send it off in the hands of another willing servant girl).

Fandral hummed the entire walk to Thor’s rooms, mindless melodies flitting past his lips to hover about his ears before fluttering into the night. As he slipped through the pair of doors as gold and great as the First Prince himself, the last note was chased away by the roar of Thor and Volstagg’s laughter. He followed the happy sounds through the front receiving room to the entertainment room, finding the group seated as usual at the low table near the balcony. It was another familiar and comforting scene: a platter of cheese and dried fruits that was already half demolished on the table, surrounded by goblets and pitchers of berry wine like towers encircling a vibrant, colourful village, and everyone artfully lounging above on velvet chaises like the gods and legendary warriors they were.

Thor noticed Fandral first, seated as he was at the head of the table, and raised his goblet. “The lover returns!” he called, voice coloured with drunken humour.

“Indeed he has,” Fandral said, pouring himself a drink and tapping his goblet to Thor’s. “All love given is inevitably returned, my Prince.”

“Vigorously returned?” Thor said, leaning forward and waggling his eyebrows.

Perched at Thor’s side, Loki scoffed, rolling his eyes with exaggerated movements. The rose was still secured to his coat, like a love note to Spring herself.

“And eagerly,” Fandral said absentmindedly.

Thor’s laughter boomed across golden walls. “To love returned!” he crowed, raising his goblet even higher.

“To love returned!” the Warriors Three and Lady Sif chorused together.

Even Loki, who said nothing, tilted his goblet and took a small sip. His fingers, Fandral noticed, played lightly with the yellow petals he wore.

Hiding his smile under the rim of his goblet, Fandral enjoyed the warmth spreading through his stomach, thinking of what he might give to see the expression on Loki’s face upon finding a yellow rose on his pillow.

***

It had been a mere coincidence of sight and the simple whim of a moment, but now Fandral couldn’t come across a yellow rose and not think of Loki.

And as it so happened, once he started looking, yellow rosebushes were _everywhere_ in Asgard.

Hundreds of yellow rosebushes, lining walkways and filling gardens and growing wild over stone walls and metal rails that separated one courtyard from another. In the blazing light of the sun and the low, smouldering heat of evening torches, the new blossoms shone bright and brilliant like gems decorating the hem of Realm Eternal’s great city.

Brightest and most brilliant of all were the yellow roses that sat tallest on the heart of Asgard’s youngest member of Royalty, neatly tied or pinned to whichever coat or tunic he had chosen for the day.

Of course, they were the brightest and most brilliant; they had been handpicked by Fandral the Dashing himself, after all, mere coincidence and simple whim becoming a game Fandral couldn’t help but play all season. It was a game that flexed every bit of his charm and creativity as he competed with himself to find new and unexpected ways to anonymously slip yellow roses to the Second Prince every day. He was spending more time in the library than on the training grounds now, losing hours amongst Asgard’s great collections of romantic poetry and literature in search of inspiration—and what delightful inspiration there was to be found.

Yellow roses delivered alongside His Highness’ meals and refreshments, at breakfast and lunch and tea and dinner, and left awaiting him by the water barrels at the training grounds and the wine jugs of his rare nightcaps.

Yellow roses slipped between the pages of the books left open on His Highness’ favourite desk by windows looking out to the western mountains in the library, as he roamed the tall shelves looking for a second reference book.

Yellow roses threaded through His Highness’ freshly laundered clothing, and in the saddle of his mount on his riding days, and in the straps of the sheathes of his knives, thorns carefully blunted or cut to keep from damaging luxury material.

Yellow roses sent through highly trained ravens and messenger hounds and once even a particularly audacious cat who pounced and snatched the rose away in its mouth right as Fandral cut the stem and fled, only to be found hours later smugly purring in a certain Prince’s lap, white-tipped paws batting at yellow petals dangled above by an amused Loki.

Yellow roses on balanced on sweet cakes and small wooden figurines and little ceramic discs glazed with abstract art, all passed through the common channels, changing hands from guard to poison-taster to curse-tester back to guard before being dropped upon His Highness’ study desk as part of the common folks’ routine offerings.

Yellow roses twined to the handle of the His Highness’ room, and hanging from the branches of trees along his favoured garden paths, and set upon the lesser-walked corridors preferred by His Highness for getting from one wing of the palace to the other.

“Are you sure it’s not a stalker?” Volstagg asked one day with a touch of mild concern.

Fandral only just managed to bite down on his tongue to keep from spilling his identity in offense at the notion. They had just passed the middle of the season, the days growing longer and warmer as Asgard’s sun lingered to dine with her people. All that time spent coming up with new, delightful ways to deliver his thoughtful gifts, and here he was being questioned—albeit unknowingly—as a stalker!

Heartbeat speeding up, he turned to Loki, waiting for his response. He was oddly disappointed: Loki merely shrugged, his fingers twirling the day’s rose (slipped into his satchel when no one was looking, just before the six of them departed on their weekly ride to reaffirm the bond with their personal mounts) while his other hand held a loose grip on his reins.

“Fear not, Loki,” Thor said from the left flank of their group, “if there is someone who means you harm, then I will make them regret ever laying eyes on you, on my honour as your brother.”

Loki wrinkled his nose, a small, crooked line appearing at one of the corners of his mouth.

“I should hope that it won’t come to that,” he said, though he shot Thor a warm look when Thor closed his eyes and laughed. The volume of his voice sent a squirrel scurrying up a tree trunk into the leaves, making the tiny overhanging pink and orange blossoms sway.

“What do you even do with all the roses?” Sif asked, looking back over her shoulder. Even without his leader’s attention, Sif’s steed carefully picked his way over the twig-strewn path, delicately stepping over a fallen branch.

Fandral was thankful that his position towards the rear of their group afforded him a clear line of sight of both the forest path and Loki’s profile—his own mare was a beautiful beast, loyal and true, but liable to skittishness if she felt abandoned by her rider, and Fandral’s attention was very much diverted once again in anticipation of Loki’s answer. He’d been curious about this too.

“Nothing that would likely interest you,” Loki said.

“That doesn’t exactly inspire confidence,” Sif said.

Loki rolled his eyes. “Well, if you must know, I extract the oils from the petals, and then grind them into dust for my stores. Asgardian roses have some limited medicinal affects, so I’ve been experimenting with developing different salves to heighten those properties. The stems I give back to the gardeners to be rooted for the next season.”

“That is very pragmatic,” Fandral couldn’t help but remark.

“Well I couldn’t very well let the effort of whoever is gathering these roses for me go to waste, could I?” As if to demonstrate, Loki tucked his rose back into his satchel, letting the blossom stick out and bob along to the rhythm of their ride.

“Have you tried mixing them with the dewdrops of the Saegnlin leaf?” Hogun said, quietly manoeuvring his horse so he was riding closest to Loki’s side.

“No, I haven’t,” Loki said, surprised. He paused for a moment, considering. “I will try it. Thank you for the suggestion.”

Hogun nodded, his eyes warm in the way that told them he was thinking of his home Realm. “You could also try the Gravkith leaf,” he said, “when crushed to pulp, it has a cooling effect on burns and may blend well with roses.”

The sudden turn into discussions of botany was unusual for their group, yet Fandral found himself not minding at all, happily riding in the rear guard and following the bright beacon of Loki’s yellow rose.

***

All too soon, the Asgardian Summer simmered in, quickly turning into a roiling heat that parched Spring’s blooms in the same breath as it coaxed open the most bashful of blossoms and ripened the Realm’s fruits to sweet, juicy decadence. In that sticky heat, the yellow roses that been the talk of the season among their group turned brown and wilted.

In truth, it was good timing: as much as Fandral enjoyed his self-proposed challenge, his creativity and inspiration were exhausted, and he knew that he had been neglectful of his training and practice. Disappointed as he was to lose those days of smug delight that came with knowing that he had made the infamous Silvertongue Prince smile, he too knew when the chase was best let go.

And yet, the habits he picked up over the season were not so ready to depart—still his eyes found themselves straying to Loki, searching for the single yellow rose that would sit so proudly on his breast, for the flickers of softness and pleasure that showed in the shine of his eyes and the relaxing of his cheeks and the lightly curled press of his lips.

Nor did it seem that he was the only one who had picked up new habits: Loki was distracted whenever their group met, eyes darting around and fidgeting with every object that crossed his path like he was expecting to find something. As the days passed, the rose at his breast turned darker and darker in colour, matching the Prince’s deepening frown, until finally, the drooping petals could last no more.

It happened right in the middle of their monthly sport: Loki squaring off against Volstagg, defence vs. attack, both at a standstill with the ball in Volstagg’s hands. Each man’s team hovered about the pair, hollering encouragement at the players as they rocked back and forth on their heels and toes, daring the other to be the first to make a move. Abruptly, with no warning, Loki stilled, chin slowly tipping down. They all followed his gaze, just in time to watch as the wilted, browned petals of Loki’s last rose fell, dropping into Loki’s open palm. A look of utter incomprehension passed over his face, staring down at his hand. Then he turned without a word and walked off the court, leaving his brother and the Warriors Three and Lady Sif with suddenly uneven teams.

“Forgive him,” Thor said, when Loki was out of sight, “he has been in a despondent mood of late.”

“I suppose it can’t be helped,” Volstagg said, tucking the ball under arm.

Thor made a disgruntled noise. “If this whole affair has been a joke made at my brother’s expense,” he said darkly, “I will not hesitate to show my displeasure.”

“Surely not,” Fandral said, though he didn’t quite know which part of Thor’s threatening remark he was answering to.

Thor made another displeased noise, almost a growl. On reflex, Fandral wiped the sweat off his brow, realised what he had just done, then swept his hand through his hair, like that had been his intention all along.

“He’ll be fine, Thor,” Sif said, in a voice that was surprisingly gentle given her usual derisiveness on the subject they were all carefully not speaking of, “we have all been through our share of disappointments. This is no different.”

“I suppose,” Thor said, though he was clearly unhappy to have conceded the point, the words muttered out through downturned lips.

“How about some lunch?” Volstagg suggested, even as Hogun gave Thor a conciliatory pat on the arm.

“Alright,” Thor said with a sigh. His gaze drifted to where Loki’s shadow had last been before distance swallowed it. “I just wish it had not been such a disappointing end.”

***

As Fandral cut into his mutton, nodding along in time to Sif’s commentary on the latest gossip of Asgard high nobility, a small, disquieted feeling seeded itself in a corner of his mind. By the time the bones had been licked clean, the feeling had sprouted and climbed its way to the front of his mind, shading all over thoughts like wild ivy.

It wasn’t until he returned to his chambers that night, devested himself of his armour and wrapped himself in the silken furs of his bed that he was able to put the feeling into words.

He could accept that he could be considered many things: womanising, frivolous, careless, even foolish in his less wise moments.

Disappointing was not one of them.

***

Loki arrived in the Courtyard of Small Pools long after the sun had begun to set, the clip of his footfalls on the stone path sounding in time to the trickling melody of running water. By then, the sky was ablaze with brilliant streaks of orange, making the streams pouring from the basins built into the courtyard’s western wall glisten like falls of gold. In that diffuse amber light, the yellow rose the Prince held seemed to burn, shadows of red playing upon its many petals. The small note tied to the rose fluttered, golden ribbon catching the light and glittering.

Fandral stood in the centre of the Courtyard with bated breath, watching Loki draw closer and closer as he made his way past the Courtyard’s trees and benches, and saw the exact moment recognition lit up on his face. Now past the point of no return, Fandral took a deep breath through his nose and stepped forward. The waxed paper of the bouquet of yellow roses he held rustled in his hands as he moved; the sound scratched in his ears like the slide of a knife in its scabbard. When Loki gave no reaction other than going still, eyes wide, Fandral cleared his throat and spoke.

“I was worried,” he said, hoping that Loki couldn’t hear the way his voice wanted to tremble, “that you wouldn’t come.”

There was more that he had planned to say, explanations and witty remarks and even an apology for having lost control of himself and letting the whole business spiral beyond his admittedly poorly thought-out expectations. But standing there in front of Loki, looking at those intense green eyes and those delicate, pale hands still holding a single yellow rose, it all fled from him. He was left tongue-tied and fidgety in a way he hadn’t felt in centuries, heartbeat thudding loud enough in his chest that it almost drowned out the bubble of pouring water behind him.

Still, he forced himself to keep looking forward, the way Asgardian warriors were trained to, turning nerves to courage and meeting their fears and apprehensions head-on. And so he watched as Loki continued to stand still and say nothing, felt sweat collecting in his palms as the minutes ticked by. It was an excruciating eternity before Loki finally reacted.

“You mock me.”

Loki’s voice was low and deadly, teeth bared. Two spots of red appeared high on the sharp lines of his cheeks. His eyes were shadowed and seething under a brow creased with anger and indignation. Delicate, pale hands clenched into fists; the stem of the single yellow rose he held snapped.

Panic slammed into Fandral and he physically stumbled forward in a sudden, desperate need to explain.

“No, no, my Prince, not at all.” The words fell out in a rush; for the briefest second, it felt as if his heart was trying to fall out with them. “That was never my intent. I—the very first one, from the Spring Feast? I was going through the gardens on my way there and passed by the rosebushes, saw them and thought of you.” He let out a nervous, little laugh, unable to smother it in time. “Green and gold, you see. And they were blooming so beautifully, I thought you of all people would appreciate them. And then the rest. Well, you know what they say about me. Fandral the Dashing, always getting carried away, and I guess I can’t really argue with that. Not this time, anyway.”

He was rambling, that he knew, but what he didn’t know was why he was still talking. He couldn’t seem to stop.

“It was just”— and here his left hand reached up and ran streaks through his hair, tugging and scratching at the roots—“just that you smiled. You always smiled when you received them, and there was something… something precious, about them. Your smiles. You don’t smile very often, you know that?”

Loki wasn’t smiling now, but he wasn’t snarling anymore either. Wide, bewildered eyes stared at Fandral in blatant confusion, vivid green contrasting the rosy colour staining those sharp cheeks. They were asking him something, and Fandral felt helpless to answer.

He tried anyway.

“Then Spring ended, and I thought that it would be over.” It felt more like a confession than he expected, like vines creeping around his ribs and choking him from the inside. He just prayed it would be enough. “But then—”

He looked away, biting down on his tongue, words trapped in his throat. His face felt on fire, like all that was left of the day’s summer heat had sauntered down from the evening sky and nestled right against his exposed skin. The burning spread right up to the top of his head where his nails dug into his skull, his grip on his own hair tightening to the point of pain.

“But then?”

Loki’s voice came so softly and unexpectedly, Fandral almost didn’t hear it over the warble of the water fountains. In the empty Courtyard though, at the twilight hour when all the rest of the palace was away in their rooms readying themselves for the evening meal, the smooth stone walls held back Loki’s words for Fandral’s ears to catch them. The cautious prompt startled a sharp breath out of him; it was enough to release the pressure that choked him.

“Then you stopped smiling,” he said, and dared to look up again and meet Loki’s gaze. “You were—disappointed, I think. I never meant for that to happen. I only wanted to bring you some small joy.” Another breath, deep and steady. “So, these are… for you.”

Ignoring the way his hand shook, the petals of the roses noticeably trembling in the air, Fandral extended his arms. He could have counted the seconds that passed by the pounding of his heart, every beat loud and needy as he stood there holding out the bouquet of yellow roses. But when a moment passed without even the smallest of responses, Fandral’s arms sagged and his shoulders dropped in defeat.

“Not that you have to accept them, of course,” he hurried to say, forcing down the urge to take a step back, “I just thought—"

Before Fandral could finish his sentence, Loki struck forward, hand whipping out, and snatched the bouquet right from Fandral’s grip. The single yellow rose in his other hand swung from its broken point, coming to hang forlornly to the side.

“Where did you even get these?” he demanded, peering into the yellow roses with narrowed eyes like he expected to find a viper coiled up and ready to strike inside the bunch. “All the roses in Asgard have withered.”

“I, ah, went to Alfheim,” Fandral admitted, only half aware of what he was answering, astonished as he was with the sight of Loki holding the bouquet.

“You went to Alfheim, just for these?” Loki pressed.

“I… uh, yes?”

“For me?”

“Yes.”

Loki’s mouth made a strange wobbling sort of motion, opening and closing several times before it settled into something that Fandral thought could be called a pleased smile. Before he could decide for sure though, a spark of green caught his attention, flashing from Loki’s fingers and trailing through the stem of the single rose, pushing it upright until it stood straight and tall once more. Carefully, Loki added the flower to the bouquet, then hugged the arrangement to his chest, enfolding it completely into his arms. The crown of yellow roses obscured the bottom half of his face, not quite high enough to hide the blush now rising all the way to the tips of his ears.

Neither did it muffle his voice when he finally spoke.

“Tomorrow, you will take me on a ride through the Gløð Fields,” he said. Fandral could only listen, heart thudding furiously in his chest. “You will prepare and pack a fair meal of sweetbreads, cheese, grapes, and those little honey-nut cakes that Eida makes. And two skins of Elvish moonleaf wine.” Loki cleared his throat. “We’ll have lunch by the Falls of Svanfrid. I will meet you at the stables. Have our horses ready by the second peal of the bells. Do not be late.”

With that, he spun, turning his back to Fandral so sharply the tails of his coat flared out in a violent arc. The sudden movement jolted Fandral out of his stupor. Before he knew what he was doing, he had already rushed forward, calling out, “Loki!”

Loki paused mid-step; his foot came down on the stone path without a sound. Slowly, hesitantly, he turned his head and glanced back, upper body twisting just enough for the yellow roses to peek out over his shoulders.

Fandral stopped a step before Loki, so close he could easily discern the uncertainty writ clear in those green eyes. They glimmered with hazy streaks of warm colour, reflections from the fiery blaze of the setting sun.

Flowers blooming, Fandral thought, and reached out until he grasped Loki’s hand, drawing it out from the protective shelter of the bouquet. He let their clasped hands hold for a moment between them, marvelling at the unusual play of soft and rough skin of the palm and fingers held in his; then, he leant over and pressed his lips to pale knuckles.

The scent of roses brushed against him.

“Until tomorrow, my Prince,” he said, rising and stepping back. The corners of his lips twitched up in a mischievous smile he didn’t bother suppressing.

Loki’s face was bright red; he nodded jerkily and pulled his hand from Fandral’s grasp. This time, Fandral let him complete his escape, face buried in a bloom of yellow roses.

With the Courtyard to himself once again, Fandral didn’t try to stop himself from laughing out loud in sheer relief and wonder, a flutter in his chest and a song on the tip of his tongue. When the giddiness finally calmed down enough that he could maintain a composed demeanour once again, Fandral swept away from the Courtyard, head buzzing with fast-developing plans and possibilities. There was no time to waste: he would need to find quite the incentive to convince Eida to make her infamous honey and nut cakes at such last minute, and likely scour the night markets for Elvish moonleaf wine as the palace cellars had yet to be fully restocked since the celebration of the Spring Equinox.

The scent of roses lingered under Fandral’s nose, a floral musk holding the promise of an early Spring, sharp and delicate and tasting of green and gold.  

 

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!<3


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